I have tried so many times to find the words, to capture the overwhelming sadness upon learning about Ricky Garduno’s death. I’ve stared at the tributes, the photos and memories, and I am speechless. I am stunned and angry. I am heartbroken. I had only learned about his death this weekend, and I am trying to wrap my mind around it all.

Ricky was my boyfriend in high school, right around the time we were both graduating. I can’t recall the exact details of how we met, but I can guarantee it revolved around art. We were soon inseparable, staying up late, talking on the phone about comics, music, and how misunderstood and out of place we felt in the world. The usual teen angst bullshit. His comics would make me laugh until I nearly peed my pants, and he’d pore over the gothic pen-and-ink beauties that I’d sketch. We would share my Sandman and Shade the Changing Man comics. He gave me a copy of Brave New World. I got him to watch Clockwork Orange for the first time. We were two peas in a pod.

Our relationship moved quickly, and as the time came for me to leave for college, his art became more intense and frantic. In a long and gut-wrenching phone call, we decided to maintain a long-distance relationship. You can guess how well that worked out. Within a year, I had moved back to Southern California, got back together with Ricky, and then broke up again. We eventually went our separate ways, occasionally talking here and there. Not long after we split, I met my husband.

The Ricky I knew was never afraid to tell you exactly what he thought. He was passionate, outspoken, funny, and always tried to push the envelope. In the rare times when words escaped him, his artwork would say it all. When I was first dating my husband, shortly after Ricky and I broke up, he sent me comics he had drawn of our imagined life together. At the time, I was upset and angered by the comics, but as time went on, I found them hilarious. I wish I knew what happened to those comics.

The years went by. We remained friends, chatting here and there, catching up with each other online. I started working with a major Internet company, he had begun working on Mucha Lucha and El Tigre, and eventually, began working with Family Guy. His own comic, 1930 Nightmare Theatre, had a large following and was doing well on its own. It was smart, funny, quirky, and dark. Just like Ricky.

At some point in the last year, things began to change. His comics became darker, his perspective despondent. His photos and art began to reflect a lingering heartache that seemed to haunt him. I emailed him, asking about a cryptic Facebook status that he laughed away with a witty response. This happened several times. By October, the situation seemed to be getting desperate, so I reached out to him again and offered any help I could.

I was in Palm Springs with my family one weekend in October, when I received a call from Ricky. He sounded hollow and defeated. He asked me for help, looking for a professional to talk to about the difficult time he was going through. I gave him a few names and numbers, and as the conversation continued, he confided in me about the pain he was in. We spoke for over an hour, and I was concerned that he might endanger himself. I urged him to contact someone that could help, a mental health professional – anyone – that could keep him focused and prevent him from harming himself. I later received a text that he had checked himself into the local ER and was being admitted. For a short time, I breathed a sigh of relief. He stayed in contact with me via text as long as he could that weekend. He reassured me that he was feeling better, and then a few days later I would hear just the opposite. The cycle would repeat itself. In the weeks that followed, we kept trying to meet up with him for dinner, but the timing never worked out. Our schedules always seemed just off, unable to connect. In one of our last conversations, he thanked me for remaining his friend throughout the years, and that he always held me in high respect.

On December 1st, Ricky posted his last comic strip online. The lead character, Kimbo, attempted suicide. Ricky was found dead in his apartment on December 6th, 2011. I cannot comprehend the reality that he’s really gone. There is an indescribable sadness knowing that someone you once loved died alone, hurting, with no soft place to land. I can only hope that somewhere, Ricky has found peace. There is solace knowing that his art will remain, forever a testament to the creative soul that he was.

May his memory be a blessing.

Jessica Kubel

From: Type your name as you’d like it to appear on the site

From the moment I met Ricky until the last day I spoke to him, he encouraged me to live everyday embracing my “strange” and utilizing the creativity I have. All I can think about now is how lucky I am to have had such a wonderful person in my life, egging me on and laughing/crying with me. His efforts to make me smile never went unnoticed, and over these past couple of weeks it has been the saving grace of dealing with his loss. As cliché as it is, he wouldn’t want me to be as sad as I have been. The last conversations we had are still replaying themselves in my head. I’m still trying to make sense of all of this. I love you buddy. I think of you everyday.

From: Maddie

I want to say thank you to Ricky. He cast me in his movie when I was three years old. He drew me cartoons and would make me color them in with crayons.He made me his camera operator for his TV show in high school. He kind of gave me all my first art jobs. By age 17, he’d made movies, drawn comics, had his own TV show and pissed a lot of people off.

He was always so full of ideas, I remember there were post-it notes everywhere in his room. He was truly an artist. He was someone I would want to be like. Always doing, always drawing, always working on who he wanted to be. He never stopped skeching, he never stopped thinking. I even found a dream log of his. His inner life was so rich he kept track of all of it.

So I want to say thank you to Ricky. I wouldn’t be the person I am without him. He is responsible for my dark sense of humor: he used to read me Tales From The Crypt as bedtime stories.

The dark side is comfortable to me because Ricky made me open minded to life, open-minded towards different people and that is something not many people are comfortable with. Growing up with someone like him was a saving grace because I learned not to write anyone or anything off because it was bizarre or weird. I have Ricky to thank for that open-mindedness.

He introduced me to so many new things. He surrounded himself with people who were different and original and I looked up to his friends. He was a stimulating person. Ricky was a clever he always had insight into things that people wouldn’t notice. He had the ability to see humor in situations even when he was ten years old. And he was lucky enough to be able to fill his entire body of work with his unique view of life.

I feel like that is something Ricky gave me that I am thankful for: a sensitive, artistic, humorous view of the world and the ability to get pure joy from simple things that many overlook.

The way you see the world says a lot about the type of person you are and Ricky was open to the world. I think that may have been something that was hard for him, too, was being so open and honest to the world, you’re really vulnerable, and it’s hard to live and be vulnerable. It’s hard to live the way Ricky lived.

So I want to say thank you to Ricky. For being my brother, for being an inspiration, always. He makes me want to work harder in my life as an artist and I’m glad I have him as an example of a well-rounded, hard working artist.

Ricky will always inspire me.

From: Michelle Garduno

Ricky gave this to me on my birthday in high school. One day he asked if I wanted to color slides for his Metal Mike cartoon. Then he gave me credit for it and spelled my last name right. You don’t forget things like that. That is all.

From: Just April

Goodbye, Ricky. I never knew him in life, only through his comics and tumblr page. 1930s Nightmare Theatre is one of those rare things that was able to combine humor and surreal horror to great effect. In fact, a few of the earlier strips reminded me of Del Close’s Wasteland comic from the 80s. It’s sad to think (based on some comments he made before the strip ended) it might have contributed to his early demise. I hope he’s ascended to a universe less monstrous and chaotic than the one we currently inhabit.

From: Corman

From his Mucha Lucha storyboard ‘Buena On Wheels’

From: Eddie Mort

This is so sad. My heart goes out to Ricky’s friends and family. Nobody should have to suffer from depression, and especially should never have to lose the battle either.

From: eMMy from Ottawa Canada

As well as working with Ricky on Mucha Lucha!, I was also a fan of Ricky’s work. I always looked forward to the days when it was time for him to pitch his storyboard for a new episode to those that worked alongside him, and to the network.

His first boards were great, but when he was given the freedom to board from one-page story outlines rather than full scripts, his storyboards became something magic.

I saved as many of these pitch boards as I could. They are a direct glimpse into his sensibility, sense of humor, and what he felt cartoons should be. I count this as one of the most fortunate experiences I’ve had in 20 years of working in animation, and a great influence on how I’ve looked at my own storytelling and storyboards since.

I’ve started posting one of his pitch boards here… http://mlboards.tumblr.com/ (it’s 222 pages, so it will be in instalments.)

Strap yourself in – it’s a wild ride.

Thanks for everything Ricky.

Respect, always.

Eddie

From: Eddie Mort